


On The Edge

by unquiet-mind (gypsymuse)



Category: Ghost (Swedish Band)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Getting Warmer, Nameless Ghouls Are Nameless, No Idea Where Exactly This Is Going, Probably To Hell, Slow Burn, They Have Nicknames Though, Unmasked Ghouls
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-23 02:54:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9637790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gypsymuse/pseuds/unquiet-mind
Summary: A nice afternoon's practice turns into something unexpected for an amateur figure skater when she comes face to unmasked face with a group of Ghouls.





	1. Chapter 1

The rink was really the last place I wanted to be that Saturday afternoon, but the old saying “beggars can’t be choosers” is particularly applicable to adult figure skaters. We’re way down the hierarchy when it comes to things like coaching and ice time, even more so for those of us who have to fit our expensive and dangerous hobby in around work and family obligations. Thus my sorry hungover ass was schlepping around during a public skate session on an afternoon following an excessively late night seeing my favorite band in concert. Before my lesson time was even halfway through both my coach and I were completely fed up with tripping over the ice tourists who ignored the orange cones denoting our working space; she cut me loose early with a shrewd look and a recommendation of rescheduling after I’d had a chance to “recover.” Yeah, right.

Left to my own devices, and unwilling to waste paid-for ice time, I sought to kick myself out of my post-show funk and attempt to get in a bit of a workout in spite of the wobbly children and old people littering my path. I’m by no means a world champion—a late bloomer, at 33 I’m just barely working on my single jumps—but I’m usually a quick and agile skater, adept at steering around obstacles. Or at least, I am when I’m not still burning off the aftereffects of an evening’s overindulgence in recreational beverages and the fierce euphoria that music raises within me, which is maybe why what happened next happened.

I was on the opposite side of the rink when a group of guys came in, laughing and crowding their way onto the ice. There were a half dozen of them, in an assortment of heights and hair colors and skating abilities. They remained in formation more like a gaggle of teenage girls than an assortment of dudes, but whatever; I kept a wary eye out as I made my way around, knowing from experience that frat parties on ice usually ended up with someone taking a blade to the face or being slammed into the plexiglass. One of them, a tall one all in black, appeared to be showing off for the edification of a guy in a Hawaiian shirt, of all the ludicrous things to wear skating. The bigger guy suddenly put on a burst of speed, made a quick (and surprisingly graceful) loop around his squad, took an exaggerated and wildly theatrical bow before them, then launched himself backwards, turning just in time to come face to horrified face with me as I made a futile attempt at dodging his trajectory. In the moment before impact I realized that I recognized him—had in fact been right in front of him the night before, had stared straight into the wide dark-blue eyes that shone so startlingly out of his silver mask. 

I had very little time to admire his unmasked face before impact. Both of us attempted to put on the brakes via hockey stops, skidding sharply sideways and flinging up fans of snow before us, but momentum won out and catapulted us into one another. At least the big lug had the presence of mind to do the gentlemanly thing, catching me in his arms and shifting his weight so that we both fell down and backwards, me on top, straddling him in a most undignified position with my knees on either side of his hips. Attempting to raise his upper body, his grip on me shifted and one big hand slipped down and landed, accidentally I assume, on my ass. Startled, I yelped and gave what I assure you was a completely involuntary kick, which unfortunately brought the stabbiest part of my blade in contact with his leg. He said something very bad in Swedish (one of the coaches here is a Swede, so I’ve picked up a few things) and bolted upright, dumping me sideways onto the ice. I repeated his Swedish swear out of pure spite, glaring at him.

“You kicked me!”

“You ran into me!” Getting my feet underneath me, I shoved myself into a standing position and took stock of the situation. I had one large grumpy ghoul at my feet, clutching his leg and growling; ringed around us were the other five, all watching avidly. Shock making me stupid, I turned to Mr. Pineapple Shirt and snapped “Don’t just stand there, help me get him up!” Not even trying to hide his grin, he did so, the others parting like the Red Sea to allow the three of us passage. We pushed my assailant onto a bench and I dropped to my knees in front of him, pushing up his pants leg to inspect the damage. Fortunately it was minor—a small puncture and a scratch—but blood was visible, and I felt suddenly woozy. I had inadvertently toepicked the rhythm guitarist I’d been eyefucking for two hours the night before. What had my life become?


	2. Chapter 2

Within moments, the rest of them had clomped off the ice and gathered to check on their fallen comrade. Rising and retrieving my blade guards, I hopped on first one foot then the other to put them on while making reassuring noises.

"It's just a little cut, nothing serious. I'll just take him to get a band-aid and he'll be fine." But what if they decided to sue me? Or the rink? I'd never injured anybody before. Biting back panic, I looked back to see him regarding me solemnly. Unlike his friends, all of whom were nearly painfully cute, my victim's face seemed set in a perpetual scowl. I wondered, wildly, if you called it Resting Bitch Face if it was on a guy. Those eyes, though--they looked amused, and surprisingly kind. I offered my hand and he took it, and I felt the pressure of his heavy silver ring even through my glove. "Come on, the first aid kit is in the locker room."

I towed him along out the door and down the hall, giving a nod to the owner as we passed by. I'm here enough that no one much questions me, though the sight of my companion did net me a raised eyebrow. He plopped down on a stool while I fetched the first aid kit and pulled out an alcohol wipe and a bandage. Down on my knees again (and I was doing this A LOT in front of this man), I set to work, eyes on my task. If I kept busy and avoided eye contact, I'd maybe keep my nerves at bay and manage not to sound like a complete idiot.

"I'm sorry I ran into you," he said at length. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," I assured him. "I'm wearing protective padding." I knocked one knee against the floor to emphasize. "And I am so sorry that I cut you. It really was an accident."

"It's okay. Oh. By the way, I'm--"

"I know who you are," I interrupted him, looking up. "It's nice to meet you, _Omega_." That earned me a grin that utterly transformed his face, and utterly wrecked me. "I'm Valerie."

"It's nice to meet you, too." He considered me for a moment. " _Talar du svenska_?"

That made me laugh. " _Ja, lite_. One of the coaches here is Swedish--he's married to my coach. He yells a lot. I've learned a little from them, profanity mostly, which is how I knew what you were saying."

I finished swabbing the small wound, carefully ignoring the warmth of his skin and the firmness of the muscle under my hand. He watched me work, lightly drumming his fingers against his knee. "Have you been skating for a long time?" He asked.

"A few years. I wanted to when I was little, but never got the chance. You looked like you could skate pretty well, yourself."

He shrugged. "I grew up where it is cold," he deadpanned, then burst out with the most ridiculous snickery little laugh. I was squatting on the locker room floor with this oddly attractive man's bare calf in my hand and his crotch at my eye level and I wasn't sure if I was halfway to heaven or already in hell. "So," he continued, "you are taking lessons?"

"Yes. I'm planning to compete--very, very low-level competition, but--uh, yeah." Oh, I am so smooth. 

"I'd like to watch you, after we're done here. I only saw you for a minute before we ran into each other."

Oh. Now I felt my face heating up, to go along with the other parts that were already burning. "OK, sure." I smoothed down the bandage, pulled down his pants leg and patted the injured spot gently, then scrambled to my feet. "All done. Shall we go out and find your friends?"

He started out ahead of me, then paused and looked back over his shoulder. "I remember you," he informed me mildly, "from last night. Did you like what you were seeing?" 

Cocky bastard! Taking complete leave of my senses, I looked him right in the eye and said "Yeah. Did you?"


	3. Chapter 3

We returned to find the rest of the band occupying the snack bar, and the sight was so unexpectedly wholesome that i could scarcely reconcile it with the image of the swaggering sextet of demonic musicians I so knew and loved. They were huddled together in one of the booths, cups of hot chocolate steaming in front of them. I took the opportunity to really study them all as we approached.

There was small Earth, a bundle of constant energy, drumming on the tabletop with flatware. Next to him, for contrast, was tall Air, looking as serene and unflappable as he did onstage. Cherubic Water's appearance belied the absolutely beastly rhythms he evoked from his bass, and Alpha with his bright blue eyes and impish smile was more that cute guy in your class that you have a crush on than the fiery rock god I'd worshiped the night before. And Papa? When not possessed by the spirit of Emeritus the Third he was, I soon discovered, intelligent, thoughtful, and kind--and somewhat disappointingly non-lascivious in demeanor. They were all laughing, talking animatedly (and in a mixture of languages, no less), completely at ease together, and I reminded myself that this was an award-winning group of fantastically talented musicians, ascending to the peak of their power and prestige. They seemed instead quite a lot like my own friends, down-to-earth and easy to be with, and I felt my habitual social anxiety draining away as Omega and I joined them, everyone scooting in closer to make room for us. It was a tight fit in any case, and I was extremely aware of the heat of him beside me, the press of his shoulder and arm and thigh against my own.

The conversation opened to envelope me as well as Omega, and time passed in a flurry of topics from music to movies to philosophy and back once more to music. I told them all, rather hesitantly, how much their music had come to mean to me, and how it had helped me through a bad break-up and the stresses of learning to live life on my own again. It was a story I'm sure they'd heard a thousand variations of, but still Papa seemed almost humbled by my confession, the others looking similarly moved and thanking me for my kind words. And then I found myself suddenly at the center of a two-Ghoul sandwich as Alpha and Omega tandem side-hugged me.

I could have stayed in that spot forever and died happy.

Alpha released me, but Omega kept his arm around my shoulders. "Valerie promised to skate for us," he announced. Thus put on notice, I craned around to see the ice, and was pleased to discover that it was nearly empty. The public session was almost over.

"Go sit on the bleachers," I told them, my plan forming as I spoke. "I'll be right back."

They did as instructed while I hustled off (all right, more like stomped off, walking in skates is awkward) in search of my coach. I found her, watching me from the pro shop with an amused expression.

"Nice harem," she snickered. "Who are all those guys?"

"Oh, ha ha. They're, um, musician friends of mine."

"That one you ran into looks extra friendly."

"Hmmm. Listen, I want to run through my program for them. They're only in town for a short time and they want to see it. It's almost the end of the session--do you think you can get Dan to clear the ice while you go cue up my music?"

"Don't want much, do you? You know you're gonna have to play rink guard for the next couple of weekends as payback."

"Sure, whatever."

She looked me up and down appraisingly. "Are you sure you're up to it? You're still looking kind of tired."

"I'll be fine," I assured her. She laughed.

"Yeah, well, if you're not, I'm sure your 'friend' there can come carry you off the ice."

I hugged her briefly. "Right. Thanks, Dana, you're awesome."

"And you're nuts. Go get ready."

By the time I'd pried off my blade guards, dropped them in Alpha's lap, and taken a warm-up lap around the rink, Dan had called the end of the session and the last few stragglers left the ice. I took a deep breath, offered a quick prayer to Whoever was in charge of wayward adult figure skaters trying to impress Swedish rock stars, then skated to center ice and struck my opening pose. There was a beat or two of silence, then my music swelled up, and I was off.

I'd been working on this program for weeks, and it had fallen together fairly well; Dana was a good choreographer as well as a good coach, and she knew how to showcase my strengths as a skater while minimizing my weaknesses. I'm pretty good with footwork, enough so that I've thought of competing in solo ice dance instead of freestyle, but my jumps are solid (if not very high) and my spins are--well, they're adequate, and I usually manage not to fall out from vertigo or fall on my ass in my sit spin. I always skate better to music that I feel passionate about, and the piece I'd chosen for my program would certainly be familiar to my new Ghoul friends, particularly since several of them were playing on it, and one--my dear Omega--was singing it. I'd had to edit it down to conform to the length requirements imposed by the USFSA for adult competition, but it was still a wonderful song to work with. So many skaters seem to make very conservative, very over-familiar, choices of program music, and if I never hear fucking "Carmen" or its ilk again it'll be too soon. I'd bet any amount of money that no one's ever skated to Magna Carta Cartel in competition before. (I would've probably gone with a Ghost song, but Dana was concerned that the Satany goodness of it might be off-putting to the judges.)

Skating is the closest thing to flying that I can imagine, and there's nothing that compares to how it feels when it's just me and the ice and the music. The ice was good that afternoon, not too rough, the temperature and the texture ideal; my edges were clean and deep, and when I swung around backwards into the footwork sequence that led into my first jump combination, I knew I had it, knew instinctively that the whole program would unfold perfectly, and that I could shift my focus from technicalities to simply enjoying the ride, interpreting the music and expressing what it meant to me, sharing that joy and that love with my audience. I felt that part of it like I never had before, because of who I had for an audience. They had given me so much, through their music, and I wanted to give them something in return. This was all I had to offer, and I threw myself into it, lost in the ethereal swirl of guitars and Omega's voice and the sheer exultation of my body moving through space in perfect harmony with it all. I sailed through the fade in a spiral that covered half the rink, pushed out of it for the last burst of speed needed to power me into the spin that closed the program, and let my momentum run out as the song trailed off. I came back to myself with the awareness that I was out of breath and dripping with sweat and absolutely exhilarated. I took a huge dramatic bow, then headed for the exit. Dana and Dan and a handful of others were gathered around, and the looks on their faces told me what I already knew, that I'd nailed my program like I never had before.

I only had a moment to register their reactions before my whole world was engulfed by Omega, who caught me in a crushing hug before I'd taken two steps off the ice. It was even better than the Alpha-Omega combo hug from earlier, and as I melted against him, I realized that he'd maybe liked my little skating exhibition even more than I'd hoped. My thin, tight black pants let me feel very clearly just how much he was liking it still.


	4. Chapter 4

The end of the session meant time to go; there really wasn’t much to do between sessions besides watch the Zamboni, and entertaining as that is, I knew if I hung around too long I’d get tapped to put on the orange vest and start doing my payback duty as a rink guard, and I could think of plenty of things I’d rather be doing.

One of them was sitting beside me, with his bandmates arranged in a row on his other side, all of them removing their skates and talking happily amongst themselves. Omega was talking to me, and the subject at hand was my immediate future plans. Subtle he wasn’t, though he was definitely endearing.

“We are in town through tomorrow afternoon,” he informed me, prying off one skate and letting it drop to the rubber-matted floor. “If you’re not busy, we could go out for something to eat?”

“’We’ meaning you and me, or you and me and the rest of the band?” I’d have been thrilled with either option, honestly, but he quickly assured me that he’d meant the first one. I equally quickly assented, flattered and flustered and fumbly in my nervous attraction to him. It’d been a while since I’d bantered with a cute guy, and I was very much off my game—not that I’d ever had much game to begin with, being less “adorkable” than just plain “dork,” but I was usually not quite this twitchy. Of course, I’d never been in such a situation with someone I’d admired from afar, either, nor with someone who might have had his pick of a score or more of equally lustful fangirls who were far more richly endowed with looks and charm than I.

But here I was, and here we were, and the other five members of my favorite band were watching in open amusement as their brother oh-so-casually chatted up the skater girl. My coach, her husband, Dan the owner, and a variety of my own associates were doing the same. I knew I was in for both intense grilling and merciless teasing in the days to come, and I didn’t care. I was so powerfully conscious of the man beside me, of his every small movement, the heat of him, the scents of him, that other concerns receded far into the back of my mind.

I’ve never been a one-night-stand kind of girl before. Is it still considered a one-night-stand if you get started in the afternoon?

Once everyone was reunited with their own shoes, and I’d packed all my skates and towels and blade guards and protective gear away, we all rose to leave. Omega grabbed the handle of my large rolling bag and fell in behind me. Once outside he paused to confer with Papa and Alpha in rapid, low-voiced Swedish, before turning back to me and following me to my car.

“This is okay with you?”

“Yes, it’s fine,” I assured him, unlocking my trunk and letting him stow the skate bag inside. “I can take you back to your hotel later, or you can get a cab if you’d rather. I, um, need to stop by my place before we go out, though; I have to feed my cat.” I felt my face igniting at what had to sound like a pathetic ruse to get him into my lair, but it was the truth. A hungry cat is a destructive cat, and I didn’t want to face the products of his wrath later.

A sudden honking and a chorus of voices alerted us to the departure of his friends, and just like that I was alone in a parking lot with a strange man from another country whom I’d only met a couple of hours before. I was about to let said strange man into my car, and further to take said man back to my apartment. With any luck, someone would get worried if I didn’t show up to work on Monday and would find the body before my poor cat had to eat my corpse. My trepidation must have shown, because I felt a big hand nudge gently beneath my chin, tilting my head back to meet his gaze. I tried smiling and found I couldn’t quite manage it.

“What is it?” His voice was so soft.

“Nothing. I’m just—this is just odd, that’s all. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. I mean, a day ago I was getting ready to go to your concert, listening to your music, and now here I am about to—“ 

I broke off then, my traitorous hands having slid up the front of him to clutch at the lapels of his jacket, our bodies much closer than I’d remembered. He stepped in to me, my back against the side of my car, the two of us thigh-to-thigh under a sky going pastel with early twilight. His eyes were as soft as his voice, squinted like a happy cat’s, and he licked his lips before murmuring, “About to what?”

What, indeed? I opened my mouth to reply and God, or Satan, or Whoever knows what might have come out; but then his lips closed over mine, effectively sealing away any doubts I might have expressed. The contact was unexpectedly electric and I was suddenly, fiercely aroused, as if we’d been making out for hours instead of just embarking on our first kiss. He pressed up firmly against me, rocking his hips into mine, and I opened my thighs slightly to encourage the pressure where I most wanted it. I let go his jacket and wound my arms around his waist, resisting the impulse to slide a hand down to explore that tantalizing ass I’d so admired in photos and onstage. I was obviously shameless, but not quite shameless enough to feel the man up in the public parking lot. That could wait for more private accommodations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has read, commented, and/or left kudos so far--I appreciate it more than you know. Smut incoming, so stick around. :)


	5. Chapter 5

I was so nervous by the time we reached my apartment, I tripped over my own threshold and would have faceplanted if my new ghoulfriend hadn’t caught me round the waist and kept me upright. Even so, I dropped my skate bag, the sound of which startled my cat and sent him scrambling across the room, fluffy feet skidding on the bare wood. His momentum sent him crashing into a floor lamp, which fell over with a bang; he shot straight up, clawed his way to the back of the sofa and perched there, a glaring ball of malevolence. Torn between laughing, cursing, and bursting into tears, I went with the first option, moving into the room and retrieving my bag. Omega stepped in and shut the door behind us, leaning against it and looking around.

“Let me put this away, and then I’ll take care of—“ I waved my hand at the chaos before us. “The kitchen is through there, the bathroom’s down the hall on the right.” I hustled my bag into the walk-in closet, pulling the skates out and taking the cloth covers off the blades so they wouldn’t rust. I stowed the rest of my gear, hung up my jacket, drew a calming breath, and went back out in search of my guest. He’d already righted the lamp, settled onto the sofa, and was now soothing my aggrieved cat, singing to him softly in a language that I didn’t immediately recognize. He broke off when he heard me come in, still stroking the cat’s head. A loud rumbling filled the quiet.

“What were you singing?”

“An old Polish lullaby, about a brown cat. This one is very handsome.” He scratched behind the cat’s ears, and the purring intensified. “What is he called?”

“I call him a lot of things, but his name is Vandraren. He’s a Norwegian Forest Cat.”

“There’s a song by that name,” he informed me, and began to sing it, in the same gentle voice he’d used on the cat. That voice was having a similar effect on me. I’d purr too, if I knew how. As it happened, I did know the song, thanks to my coach and her husband; it was a Swedish hit from a few years back, the lyrics the rather glum lament of the titular wanderer. I’d fallen in love with Omega’s haunting vocals long before we’d ever met, and this was seducing me completely. I leaned into him, snuggling up as his arm slipped round to draw me closer, giggling a bit when my Vandraren left his perch to drape himself across both our laps. Omega petted us both, smoothing Vandy’s thick brindled coat with one hand and caressing my straight dark hair with the other. At the end of the verse, he sighed a little and leaned down to press a kiss to my forehead.

I could’ve fallen for this man, so easily.

But my stupid soft heart was not on offer; I knew better than that. He’d be long gone by this time tomorrow, nothing but a memory…a good memory, I determined, and maybe an excellent one. And while my heart was out of the question, the rest of me was feeling very open to whatever might come up. What I was hoping might come up soon was what I’d felt earlier at the rink, pressing so insistently against me. I looked down at the huge contented catloaf currently cockblocking us, then back up into the dark blue eyes crinkled up into amused crescents. A gentle nudge sent Vandy on his way, making it easy for me to get a leg over to straddle Omega’s lap, resting my weight lightly upon his strong thighs. He grasped my hips and drew me closer, and I leaned in and captured his mouth with mine.

His tongue teased along my lips, seeking entrance, and I deepened the kiss with a little moan of encouragement. In time he freed his lips to go exploring, leaving a trail along my jawline, to my earlobe, then down the sensitive column of my neck. I leaned back, exposing more skin for his pleasure—and mine. I was supported only by his firm grip and my own hands braced on either side of us, gripping the edge of the sofa.

He made the return trip back up to my ear, the tickle of his warm breath making me squirm. “Hmmm, kãraste,” he murmured, igniting a few more nerve endings. “Are we still going out to eat?”

“WHAT?” Startled, I rared back and nearly fell off his lap. Snorting with laughter, he gathered me back in, this time nibbling at my earlobe before whispering, “I’d rather stay in for a while.”

“Me, too,” I agreed, turning my face to his and recapturing his wandering mouth. I lavished particular attention on the scarred curve of his upper lip, a feature I found especially enticing. Drawing it between my own lips to suckle and bite caused him to roll his hips beneath me, hands cupping my ass and snugging me down against his growing hardness. I rocked my own hips up and back, grinding a little, needing more contact and frustrated by the layers of clothing between us. I wanted, needed, to feel the hard heat of him in my hand, in my mouth, in my cunt. I felt molten with it, nearly feral.

“Do you feel what you do to me?” he growled, and I answered him with an inarticulate whimper, rising on my knees just enough to push my hand in between us and assess the situation. Oh, I felt it all right, and I was on fire to feel more. Stroking and squeezing, I took his measure as he rolled his head back and muttered something I’d have to ask the translation of later. It’s meaning was pretty apparent. Sliding down off his lap, I knelt before him yet again; but this time I had a different goal in mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, technically, the cat's name should be "Vandrare", since "Vandraren" means _the_ wanderer, but eh. The song was a Grammi winner back in the 90s for a group called Nordman, and you can hear it (and read a slightly awkward translation of the lyrics) here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mcy2iElqwM4 Blackmore's Night recorded an English version of it called "Journeyman," with rather more encouraging lyrics and the magical addition of Ritchie Blackmore's Stratocaster. I recommend it, too: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1wbw9_tyWZU
> 
>  
> 
> I know I left poor Omega and Valerie hanging. I promise the next chapter won't be so long in, uh, coming.


End file.
